Feeding the Monster

Blogger's note: Time fades and so does the memory of an old man. If I recall certain events in a seemingly negative light, please realize that I have nothing but fondness for these wacky, wild days and those musicians who were a part of them.

In this business, until you're known as a monster, you're not a star. ~Bette Davis




Bon was very shy on stage, often
interferring with his memory.

  [John, or as we called him "Bon," playing at the student union. He had this long thumb nail that he used to play with. Wicked good player, but petrified on stage.]

Hard Times had some really awkward moments as it limped its way to becoming a band. On certain occasions, the group would have Bobo (Joe) as guest guitarist (best guitarist among us). Bobo wanted to be an auxiliary player; someone who just stepped in for a few tunes without the hassle. Joe was already making fine cashola with a group called Shop - a band that played for whatever the occasion. Today, we might call them music whores, but I digress. He certainly didn't need to be a permanent part of a starting group that had troubles.



[Dan the man during his Grissly Adams period. Oh wait, that was the '70s. Hair was in, baby. Dan would occasionally let forth a satiric barb and break his usual stoic demeanor. ]



How much silence and solitude can one bearded man take?



One night, Joe wanted to do a song by Robin Trower. Before we played it, Joe asked me directly whether or not we were up to snuff on the tune. I assured him we were. We were not in fact up on these songs. What did I know? I liked having Bobo in the group. He was a rock. He didn't have an agenda.

It didn't go well.

Such was Joe's embarrassment, that in the middle of the tune, he said aloud, "Thought you said you guys knew this tune, Jim." I didn't hear what was wrong. We had gone over the tune once. Huh?



Guru Lou was an honest-to-God psychic.
BC, on the other hand, was an honest psychotic.

 [The engine room of BC on the right and Lou on the left. Lou was an occasional player with us. We called him Guru Lou because he was psychic. Yep. Lou could tell you some weirdly personal shit about yourself by just touching one of your personal belongings. Never seen anything like it before or since. BC was a powerful drummer and someone who generated a lot of excitement for the group. He was also central to the character and drive of the group.]

That wasn't the worst of it. The Bob-Robert tension had reached another level. Bob had had enough of Robert's playing, so he hired, without our knowledge, another guitarist to play with us at the next gig. So here we are, this unknown player who was to shame poor Robert off the stage. Truth is, the guy was better than me, and full of Lynyrd this and that, but he only made the situation more confused and chaotic. The truth is, probably none of us knew how to resolve the interpersonal issues. Bands are never without this.

The best gig we did was the one for the student union. Yes, the newspaper ad says Area Code- why we changed the name, I'm not sure. The band may have had a reputation for, shall we say, being a bit boisterous and unruly. I honestly can't recall.



I don't know why it felt right, but I loved it instantly.

 The power, the open stage, the volume, everyone into it: that's an experience which is impossible to describe. If this was what it was to be a musician, then I wanted more. Plus, a girl from the music department, uncharacteristically told me flat out, "You look good up there." Damn if that didn't seal the deal.

[Your humble blogger circa 1979. Dig those red track suit pants, dude. You cant' see it, but that's the Kramer guitar. Heavy damn thing. That one came out in 1977, the 13th off the line. Yep. ]

When the band was on, it had energy to burn. For all of its gleaming and glorious faults, I felt the power of music surge through me when we played. I think that both BC and me played with the intensity of punk, though neither of us would say we aspired to that approach. I was studying classical guitar and he was into jazz drummers. Odd that we should be bashing out a rough and ready version of Sympathy for the Devil.

There are some typical moments on those old dusty tapes (owned by Tipane). As a front man, I was just getting my singing together (Still am really. It's a faulty old croak, but like back then, I'll step up to the mic when no one else will. ) and my PR was pure frat boy profanity. That's how I saw myself and the group.

I do not think the recordings merit any public listening, but rather would serve as an amusing reminder of the blinders of youth to those present. The experience and the lessons learned have continued some 30 years later.

We fought and that energy came out in droves. It was a valuable experience.

The first feeding of the monster. More to come.

Musician blah blah #10

I get by with a little help from my friends.

{This pic is not my actual 1977 Kramer, but it's the same model.}

One thing's for sure: your teachers can teach you a lot, but your friends and colleagues are probably more responsible for your education, especially if your major is music. The ocean of musical knowledge is infinite, but if you can't relate or compete with your peers, you feel left out. You figure out pretty quickly how ignorant you are.

When the formal lesson's over, music majors (flaming homosexuals that we were-just kidding) would hang out. There were two things it seemed to me that we did: practiced and partied to relief the stress. You can go stark raving mad in a practice room. I saw it firsthand while helping a friend study for an exam. You can go suicidal as well. More on that later.

West Lib was an almost empty campus on the weekends. You could feel the whole atmosphere change as Friday rolled around. The place emptied out, leaving only a few souls and mostly empty buildings. It sometimes felt to me that we were being abandoned, to fend for ourselves. The commuters had it easy-drive back to home-cooked meals and other comforts. We had to slug it out in the dorms, bumming cans of tuna for the late nite munchies. The only thing that kept us going was good friends and dynamite extracurricular activities.

I know I walk to a different beat. I don't wear the clothes of the musician or artist, but inside, my perspective runs counter to mainstream, so when I say odd or oddball about any one of these guys, I say it with deep affection.

The oddball circle of friends that I found were just as eccentric as me and some maybe more so. Perhaps the most eccentric was Wolfie. An extremely bright man whose encyclopedic knowledge of jazz was tempered by his often bizarre observations and behavior. The first time I met him, we were all talking in a group about the qualities we liked in women, "I like a girl who looks like she has a couple of scars from a knife fight." We all laughed out so hard, but I do believe he was being sincere.

[My apologies to "Wolfie." We remain in contact to this day. A great guy to know.]

He could go from normal mode of operation to hammered in few quick drinks of beer. Once at a party, we were all making pleasant conversation and Wolfie was certainly making those golden provocative statements. Without notice, he started making strange animal noises and punching my laundry bag. This sent shock waves throughout the room. I knew him and knew that he wouldn't harm a fly, so I just smiled and tripped out on the scene.

Bobo was the best musician in my class. I always imagined he would go and be a session player in Nashville or back up some superstar. He can play electric guitar like nobody's business as well as sax and clarinet. Hell, he's probably picked up a few more instruments by now.

He was also the most straight-laced of all of us, adopting the Zappa dogma that drugs were for idiots. Despite never had anything stronger than beer, he could go as mentally out there as anybody I knew. Surreal humor was par for the course for us. Big surprise there.

Joe taught me a lot about music by just hanging around him. He was in a couple of different bands, playing with older musicians in the Ohio Valley. One called "Shop" played the usual rounds of weddings-special events, etc. He also played in a group with Robert and that's where I got my first taste of being on stage in a band. Of course, I instantly loved it.

Joe had a kind of garage sale, stick a band-aid on it attitude towards material possessions. I am avoiding the term "junk," but let's face it, the man had shit spread everywhere. His truck was filled with this and that. We are all guilty of this. Musicians must be some of the worst hoarders and collectors. They always seem to be searching for the "white whale" of new equipment-that one new gizmo that's going to transform their playing. Bobo has his share. There was one pedal called Doctor Q that we used to laugh about. It made the guitar sound like it was under water.

Robert and I instantly hit it off. Most folks assumed that we were already friends. Kindred spirits I suppose. He looked like T Rex with his long black curls and his rocker boots. I could tell that Roberto was into music from the get-go. Long, long conversations were held about every imaginable guitar player. He used to go on about Buck Dharma from Blue Oyster Cult until I couldn't stand it. Every guitar convo ended up with Buck Dharma this and that. I got to a point where I'd pick an argument with him just to get him to stop talking endlessly about BOC. Shut up, why don't ya?

Roberto and I spent many a long hour jamming. On the weekends, you had to do something to fill the long, lonely hours. Sharing musical ideas creates a bond and bonding with this eccentric rocker type from Beckley was easy. One of the things about Robert was that he was incredibly easy to be around. I always felt like I could be myself around him, that we weren't in competition. He is a guy who leads with his heart, perhaps because his mind is not always a reliable thing. Sometimes you could see the wheels turning for a moment, eyes glazed over like he was lost. This was a source of ridicule from our inner circle. Whatever we served up, the guy could sure take it. He came from a large Italian family and with older brothers, he probably had to have taken some serious shit in his life.

BZ was also a kindred spirit. We shared a damaged oddness, an ability to go way, way out there in one glance. Often, I didn't even need to finish my sentences, BZ was already there. He possesses without a doubt, one of the most creative and quickest minds I have ever had the serious fuckedupedness to know. He was a brass major, but handled guitar and bass pretty well. BZ stayed wound up and his sense of humor was a life raft many times. He could go weird like nobody else.

Dan was my roommate. He was a tall guy who, around most people, kept a low profile and was mostly taciturn on most subjects. But when you are roomies, you get to see all sides of a person. There was the public Dan and the one I knew. His sense of humor was like a switchblade: he could cut someone in half with just a few words. The musical education from him was one of a jazz bent. The Yellow Jackets, Steely Dan, and whatever public radio jazz he had recorded. In fact, he used to play the same tapes repeatedly. I don't think he ever owned more than a few.

BC I met at a party. When I found out he was a drummer, we hit it off instantly. Bob seemed like a calm, reasonable guy who spoke of a belief that a drummer was nothing more than a timekeeper in a band. Little did I know the fury that he kept hidden in that initial meeting. This was no timekeeper, but a time bomb. Again, whatever unnamed damage had created his penchant for loud, furious and fast drumming (and hell-raising), we shared a very similar psychological makeup. Perhaps it was our inflated egos.


Andy could be appear the most academic of us all. He would sometimes remind me of a writer for a guitar journal. He would push his glasses back up on his nose and spout some obscure factoid about an 18th century guitar practice. Contrast this with the fact that he was from Mullens. Could there be a more depressing place? How a guy who dug esoteric European jazz survived growing up in a Southern hell hole? Also, he was the first person I knew to own a complete copy of the Bach Lute Suites. I wasn't ready to tackle such monumental repertoire.


Contrast all that when the buzzage would take hold. When buzzed Andy would arrive, he was silly and would laugh his ass off.


Quick story: we put together a spontaneous band because Bob (BC) got us a gig at Bethany college. Learn the songs? What, are you kidding? We got a gig! We were so full of bullshit bravado that we figured a few runs through a tune was all that was needed. Plus, most of us were music majors and thought rock was a child's toy to play.

Hard Times was name chosen for the band and off we went. One gig at the student lounge was total chaos and a total blast. When you are so full of yourself and youthful vim and vigor that actual musical performance was secondary to the burning energy of playing loud and fast. Energy we had to spare. Oh yeah.

We burned through Bowie, Marshall Tucker, Ted Nugent with total punk abandon. Learn the chords? Lyrics? The music? Nope. We were rock'n'rollers now, no ordinary music majors. I think we had all that energy because of the prevailing hateful attitude against us at West Lib. Here, in this Bethany student union, we could pretend to be something.

Where was I? Hiding in the back? Nay-front and center with a black hat that I picked off the head of another band member. God, would I pay to see pictures of that night. Maybe Robert has them. He is the archivist of this period.

At first, Wolfie joined us. Now, like I said, there was sober Wolfie and totally blitzed Wolfie. Wolfie before the huge cup of beer, joint (and he swears someone spiked his beer with a Quaylude) was acting normal, then "Captain Quaylude," as he was dubbed by a an audience member, came to life. He said. "Hey guys, do you know I'm a Man?" He promptly launched into singing it, leaving the more skilled among us, Bobo, to try to get the band going on the tune.

It didn't happen.

At one point, Wolfie started hitting BC's cymbals: a huge no-no. You couldn't run a wire through the legs of the drum stands without a "get that that wire out of there" from Mr. Timekeeper. BC smacked Wolfie with one of his sticks. That had to hurt.

We all had a chance to play and sing for the beer drinking Bethany College crowd. At the end of the night, I have one very sharp memory. I tried to get the band to play some Neil Young. Well, as per usual, BC (drummer) liked to play so loud that he more than likely obliterated all the other instruments on stage. Again, we were young and playing with intensity. I was trying to sing, playing the piano (big joke there) when I noticed that I couldn't really hear the piano very well. Pianos, by and large, usually have no problem making their way into the mix, but this poor upright was being swallowed whole by the mighty fists of BC and everyone else.

I looked up and noticed this cute girl watching me, but this was also the moment when I realized the futility of it all, so I did what any sensible, logical, disciplined music major would do: I started pounding my fingers randomly and as loud as I could while screaming into the mic. This brought a big smile to the girl. Now, there's a moment.

They Form Band. Argh.

Robert and I got hooked up with Dan, my roommate, and Bob to form a band. This was my first experience and the education was unforgettable. We joined with this scruffy, hair-always-in-his-face bass player from Ohio named John whom we used dubbed, "Bon" because he mumbled. We would practice at Bon's house and inevitably, when the volume was cranked, neighbors would complain and the police would be there in minutes. It was like the Keystone Cops were waiting right around the corner. I have never seen such quick law enforcement response before or since.
I loved the whole idea of being in a band, but had no idea what a royal pain in the ass it could be. I have to also point out that my playing and especially my singing skills were pretty dire at this point, but I thought I was so cool. The whole idea of singing and playing guitar felt so right. Problem was, the band got so divisive.

Poor Robert (guitar) had Bob(drummer) on his ass. Robert had a lot of trouble with rhythm and sometimes he would drive Bob insane. It frustrated him to the point of anger. I vividly recall Bob trying to get Robert to play even triplets for a Blue Oyster Cult tune. The split got worse as Dan and Bob joined forces wanting to us to play a club date long before John, Robert and myself felt we were ready.

To add even more fuckedupedness to the already fucked up situation, I invited a very nice guy named Greg to be our lead singer as I kept expressing my doubts as a vocalist. Greg came to one rehearsal, going with the classic country rock "Amy" which was then really popular. I don't recall how we got onto the subject, but situation raised it's nasty head. I asked him flat-out what his opinion was and his was no revelation: Dan and Bob were about getting out into clubs and playing, while John, Robert and me wanted to rehearse more. Sounds simple to resolve, right?

You're naive.

Being an old dude now, I cannot understand why this turned out to be such an issue. Reluctantly, I followed Dan into a little hole-in-the-wall and the club owner listened to our demo. She liked it, Dan booked the gig. I do not know what we charged, but I felt embarrassed and didn't think we were ready.

The Hard Times Band made its dubious debut at the Route 40 shithole. I think we played two nights. (Robert has all the archived tapes of these nightmares. He clearly has blackmail material. I cannot imagine the embarrassment.) We had a hodgepodge of tunes ranging from Bowie to Marshall Tucker, Merle Haggard to originals, but fighting within the group would never allow us to gain any kind of sound. In hindsight, it was way too early to be playing out.

Bon was an excellent bass player, but once on stage, he became so introverted and I believe (my recollection is stretched here) that it affected his memory. To be honest, he became even more eccentric than he already was-hard to imagine.

Bob, once agitated, would start speeding up like crazy (You know the old joke about drummers.) and thus what was a jog became a balls-out sprint. Robert, always looking a little lost, struggled with Bob's aggression, but held his place. Dan sat stone faced behind his keys. Then there was the idiot at the mic.

Let's leave it there until next time, shall we?

I Like Cougars

Oh yeah. I likes them cougarific gals, even I couldn't keep them in the "style" they are so accustomed.

At The House of Tired Looking Italian Food, there were cougs a'plenty. One was right behind me and our table zoomed in on her like submarine sonar.

[This coug has been APPROVED.]

I like it when people try so hard to put on their wealth. "She's trying too hard," came a snipe from one of our female friends. I would have never thought as trying too hard and courgardom as mutally exclusive.

I like over-the-top in the lounge-cougar department, but not Goth-surf-skateboard-tatts-and-piercings: ugh. Looks like you spent the night at Casa de Frankenstein. (It is, without a doubt, a generation thing, and I say let's widen that gap more so maybe I don't have to see it.)

So, I have come to praise the cougar, not to distain her. It's the evangelical towers of hair that I find....err....over the top.

Shovelin' the Sush

I believe in the occasional overindulgence.

[Woodcut depicting the torture of gluttons. Nice. Feed them rats and snakes.]

Some may call it gluttony. Joseph Campbell said that everything is a sin in someone's mind. Years ago, I couldn't really see what he was talking about. Hell, people freak out about everything.

Last Saturday, my compadre Tim and I went to Ichiban. Rarely do I indulge in the "sush" and when I do, I like to get my fill of this delicacy. So armed with a birthday gift card, I was in a "let's do this" mode.

The place always has a minor wait, so it's off to the bar for some pints. I make it a rule never to overindulge the brews before the sush, but my pale ale pint was mighty tasty. There's another sin, right? Why does sin always taste so good?

Appetizers gentlemen?

Need you ask?

Shumai and the Chef's calamari were hence brought forth. Fine, fine delights.

More beers, please. The true epicure knows to drink beer slowly when expecting food. Small, tasty sips ensure maximum flavor and less fill.

All tallied, we knocked down 5 rolls plus appetizers and beers. Was it indulgent? Hell to the yeah. Was it a birthday present? Yep.

It was not a sin however.

We didn't have dessert.

Karma Karma Karma, Come On

Revenge is not as sweet as vindication. Never, ever.
It seems I was right on target again.

Last night, I ran into the deacon of the church where once I was gainfully employed and it seems karma has come 'round, baby, in a big way.

"Oh, he's a son of a bitch," was the answer to my inquiry as to how the new priest is working out. (Readers may remember that the previous pastor was a thief. Sadly, this is all true as he was taking church money and putting it in an out of town account. He got caught, got sacked, left far before his scheduled time and was sent to Wheeling-a sentence unto itself.)

"He never finishes anything, but he's got his hands in everything."

When I met the "new" pastor (now having been there three years), he dribbled over several times in sincere apologies (at least three) about how I had been wronged by the thieving pastor before him.

I didn't like him.

I found him to be self-absorbed and a bit egotistical. I know that's the pot-kettle thing, but he rubbed me the wrong way.

I thought I was there for a job interview, but he was clear that he wanted me to first join the church and then put me on some advisory committee.

The pastor told me that, despite no one single person had a single negative thing to say about me, he felt it was wrong to rehire me.

Seriously? After nearly twenty years of being a music minister, I am now a bumbling, old dude who used to be? What? Are you tripping? Here's why:

"He just just wants to be the star, the center of everything," my deacon friend dished out even more. "He won't let me preach either."

"Not once??"

"No. Never."

It is the pastor's prerogative to allow the deacon to preach, but "never" is a sure sign of someone not wanting the spotlight to be anywhere but on himself. Sad, sad, sad. The priest has even banned his wife from singing. They are all, but dead wood.

And here's the sweetest part of this deal: they are stuck with him, my weekends are free of both obligation and politics, but best of all: I was right.

I was right. I was right. I was right.

Shaking It Out

Well, this is old ground to me-the end of the semester. I have had some truly good students this year. I posted this at the beginning and decided last night that some thoughts on this might amuse you.

With my class, there are three things already against it as far as credibility. The first is that it's only one credit. As one smart-ass kid who argued with me about his grade (many semesters ago) told me, "This is only a one credit class." To which I retorted, "Yes and even that has requirements, requirements which you did not fulfill." The kid bargained with his grade. I was amused by his desperate attempts at persuasion and let him have a decent one. My mistake.

Sidebar: This kid I just mentioned had this air of trouble about him. When I would call his house to reschedule a lesson, his mom had a real dark and chilling presence about her. Don't call me a drama queen, she just had this stone cold vibe about her. Much later, long after the kid had finished the class, he was caught going through purses at the CHS reunion. He talked his way out that too. The classmate who caught him evidently gave a sock to the face. The kid is going to be a lawyer, a politician or will be in prison. That's my prediction and I'm willing to lay cash down on that with anyone.

The second thing is that it's "only a guitar." Nice. Want to get on a the good side of a man who has devoted his life to the study, practice and performance of an instrument? Call it "just a guitar." My blood boils at the mere thought. But, let me step outside my own paradigm for a sec, from the student's perspective, I fully understand. The guitar is everywhere-it's a plaything in Rock Band for goodness sakes. No meaning.

Lastly, the class consists of weekly one-on-one instruction. Again, this doesn't appear serious to the students.

Here's the roundup:

The Pretty One

One student has missed four times. This becomes tricky. How do you call a student on their bullshit and not be too harsh in doing so? It has taken me years. I bet I was downright obvious in my displeasure in the past. Now, patience. Carefully calculating words, watching reactions. This student came in last night with enough perfume to choke me. It has that powdery effect on your nose and throat. Awful.

Besides the perfume overdose, she was all dolled up.

Coincidence?

She knows she down a few points. She also has to provide proof that her four absences were legit. Her performance of the pieces is hit and miss. I kept hearing her making excuses and sort of laughing. She's trying to go all girlie on me to recover her grade.

I gave her the speech as kindly as possible. Evidently, her coach wanted her to come to practice telling her, "It's only one hour. It's only guitar." You see, sometimes what we suspect are people's attitudes are in fact accurate. If I was an asshole, I would email her coach and tell him/her that I did not appreciate those comments. She understood what she has to do and I very much hope she does it.

At the end, she said goodbye using my first name. Are we on a first name basis? I don't think so.

Overall, I haven't had any problems like in years past, but now we are down to the wire and that little thing called a syllabus becomes more real.

And things are shaking out. Oh yeah.

To Gig is to Laugh

Played the Beast last nite with mighty man Ryan. Here's some highlights:

~Saw an old friend's dad there with two of his buddies. He asked me if I had my Apathy cologne. Inside joke, but coming from him, it was a real defining moment.

[cool pic by Al. You da man.]

~Listening to an older guy talk to Miss Very Juiced was really distracting while playing. There were two different conversations going on. Let me try my best to recall some highlights. I'll call him Loud Talk-Over-You Guy

Miss VJ: "Your wife is so pretty."

Loud TOYG: "Yes, I have excellent taste in women. I always have."

MVJ: "She's very pretty. I love her. Sorry."

LTOYG: "Well. I know. Now let me talk about something else totally unrelated."

MVJ: "she suehdts ejfntridspsmdnrosnssh....."

LTOYG: "I ran three businesses and I want to ramble on about myself because I'm a big braggart."

MVJ: "I love you. Sorry. eytrhdteyhshdeshh....burp"

LTOYG: "You can't drive home. I'm not going to try to nail you because you know my wife and my friends are here. Even though you are really hammered, I'm going to get my friend to drive you home."

Folks it's really hard to eavesdrop (they were right next to me) and play music.

~At one point, completely without provocation, MVJ asked me, "What do you want?" This was not an in-your-face New York whatcho lookinat hostility.

I told her politely that I didn't understand the question.

"What do you really really like?"

I thought she was hinting to buy me a drink, so I said rum. "But, what would you want after that?" Hmm... are we going where I think we are going???

I then answered chocolate. That didn't seem to satisfy her. I said sex. "No. after chocolate and sex. What do you want?"

Gee. Most people would have stopped there. I had to edit my thoughts at this point. It's not really fair to be stock sober and banter with someone who's intox pretty bad.

"A room full of guitars." Nope. She didn't like that answer and gave up.

~Right after playing for three hours, I like to grab a bite and a pint. Both food and bev arrived when a friend of a friend came over and started talking about her upcoming birthday party. A very nice and easy to talk to person, but I wanted down time. When the subject of us playing for said party came up, I let Ryan do the talking. It's his gig and I am a closer friend, so he can quote a price without hesitation. Besides, this is what I want- for us to be a unit, not just a pick-up duet. I think it's working.

~Miss Very Juiced came over and took a seat and I offered a friendly compliment:

"I liked your dancing." For the first time, a couple danced at the Bistro. Amazing. Well, she furrowed her brow and looked confused.

"What did I do wrong?"

And no matter how hard we tried to explain the she did nothing wrong, nothing changed. I am certainly glad MVJ did not get behind a wheel.

~Outside, Ryan and I were on one of usual and long conversations about obscure cinema when a car passed by. This seemed to be packed with teenage girls who whooped at us. I said, "If they turn around, man, you're talking to them. I'm old enough to be their dad." Sure as shit, the car turned around. And with that, he turned on his heels and said see ya later.

I was loading my guitar into the car when a girl yelled, "Hi sexy!" Well. I'll take that, thank you.

It was a wacky ending to a night that started out so slow. It just goes to prove something.

But I just can't figure out what.

Without laughing.

The Quality of Attention

How we hold our pick is how we live our lives.
~Fripp

These words have been with me these past couple of days to serve as a reminder to slow down, consider my actions and generally to think through things as I do them. When I was a young lad, I did everything in haste. I lived as a "spaz" with a touch of geek. Quick! Quick! The rabbit ran around in circles. Today, age has slowed me down enough so that I can see this folly.

There is no quality to what we do when we do it in haste. We are merely firing brain cells for the sake of virtuosity, moving limbs about recklessly. Me, usually bashing a finger or two in the process.

How we hold our pick is determined by what our guitar goals might be, but I find myself saying:
"How I do this [insert mundane activity here] is how I live my life." I find even the most trivial activities are better when I consider these words.

The morning sitting.

A few weeks ago, I started doing the morning sitting as decribed to us by Fripp back in the wintry Guitar Craft course in '08. It's basically about finding some quiet time for yourself and learning to relax the body. It involves doing nothing but sitting in a chair. Sounds idiotic, I know. You systematically go through every part of your body and relax it. It's simple and brilliant. There are no spiritual or religious connotations to it. It's bio-feedback on a basic level.

A lot of this is based on this man. I am suspicious of the whole smells like a cult thing, but the man had his followers and detractors. I dont want to follow anyone. Learning is the goal, not worship.

I am just getting started, but can tell it has affected me. One thing's for sure, the world tries to steal this away from you. Oh yeah. The int eruptions started very soon after a week or so. It's as if the universe sensed this peace and wants to snatch it away. Typical.

I am no mellow dude nor shall I ever be. I always have the wheels turning in my head despite my big grin and happy demeanor.

I highly recommend some quiet time for you. Try to set aside ten minutes a day.The results may not come right away. It may feel silly, but something starts to happen.

The Key To it All:

The quality of our attention.
~Fripp

All my life it seems people have been telling me to pay attention. Trouble is, I find very few practical things that interesting. Certainly mundane tasks were a huge issue for my fidgety self as a teen. Nothing really changed in my twenties. I daydream all the time.

We are our attention as attention is a division of consciousness. I think defining consciousness is like counting the grains of sand on a beach.

But, each day, I try to focus my full attention on something as a way of increasing it.

Musician Tediousness, Part 9

I hate them. I do hate them.

~Col. Kurtz

I met many interesting people at Wesleyan and I value those experiences, but without formal instruction in guitar, nothing was moving forward. I was adrift.

Dr. Loftis one day asked what my applied instrument was. When I answered, he said the piano was not an option for me as a major. No shit. "Do you know Nels Leonard?" I hadn't heard that name. "He teaches guitar at West Liberty. Write to him and ask him about the program." Well, that's exactly what I did. It was then that I learned about the generosity of my future teacher.

Nels Leonard not only wrote back, but with extensive answers to my burning guitar questions. He wrote with an old fashioned ink pen on cool paper. This was the day, of course, long before email, but consider his dedication as a teacher. I had so many questions that we became practically pen pals. In short, he gave me hope.

It was clear I was heading north.

The Fool On the Hill

Prelude: Over the years, I have had many bright students, but only two were willing to make the sacrifice necessary to really learn their instrument. Sometimes I have a real chip on my shoulder about this attitude. While I have never had to go hungry, sell a instrument in order to survive and all other manner of "paying your dues," I did put in countless solitary hours and suffered amongst fools for my instrument. My years at West Lib are bittersweet.

Meeting Nels and beginning study with him was nothing short of incredible. I felt right at home. His office was adorned with many photos of him as a young man studying with various guitar luminaries, guitars and scores everywhere and always the smell of freshly brewed coffee. His personality was a little quirky as well. Young at heart, he skied, wore clogs way before anyone dared, traveled a lot and eventually married a younger woman. High five.

Doc, as we called him, was a fresh, positive force. Giving me solid information about technique, something I was so hungry for. I was a sponge. Then there were those guitars-they were works of art that you could play. I had to buy one. Soon, I did precisely that. I looked forward to my weekly lesson and was bummed when it was over. I walked out feeling satisfied, filled with purpose, my head in the clouds.

My days of blissful study with my guitar teacher were sharply (as a chainsaw) contrasted with my struggles to adapt to campus living.

West Lib in the 70's was Greek hell. This wasn't your slightly naughty but expected drunken college frat debauchery. Oh No. This was 24/7 Greek domination. The whole floor I lived on were full of frat boys hell bent on wearing out their copies of Linda Ronstadt records, yelling at each other and full of youthful shit and swagger as young men can be. Most of them seemed to me to be pigs. Honestly, I fucking hated them.

Contrast a soft classical guitar playing and the mighty noise level of a monkey house full of loud assholes and then read on. When the music department closed, I got in the habit of practicing in the student lounge. One night this asshole bursts in the door, "Will you fucking cut that out!!!" I was shocked. Now, I know some of you manly men would have pile driven his head into the sink, but not me. I said nothing and packed up and left. Oh all the hypocracisy and nerve. The dude was jealous. Fuck him.

My first roomie was a frat boy who had given himself the nickname "T." He had red hair, funky front teeth, was from Ohio, full of fake bravado, totally sucked into the social status as a frat guy. He told me when he first met me, he thought I was a wrestler because my hair was a crew cut at that time. When I told him him I was a music major, he said, "I almost burst out laughing."

It was my clue as to the attitude that was prevalent among the student body: all music and theater majors were flaming homosexuals. Now, we have to rewind our minds back to a less enlightened time, kids, when being gay was openly ridiculed and was treated as if it was a contagious and deadly disease. These frat boys believed that we were all of that persuasion and were openly hostile. So, on a daily basis, we poor music majors would hear shouts of "Faggot!" and other wonderful terms. With that attitude, there went any shot with sorority girls. It was a closed off social system.

Great. Why am I into music again? Please tell me.

The TKEs were the worst. They were like simian robots who tortured pledges (rumors abounded as to vile and disgusting methods of hazing), wore their emblem on dirty sweatshirts like SS officers and pretty much embodied everything I came to loathe about fraternities at that school. I hated those bastards.

I got by, as the saying goes, with the help of my friends.

Dramatis Personae Next

Running From Office

Time makes fools of us all. Our only comfort is that greater shall come after us.
~E. T. Bell



Last night I attended a small gathering at the local sports bar (The term never made sense to me. Oxymoron, anyone?) to lend support to an old high school buddy of mine who is running for Kanawha County Commissioner. Now, I've always consider my friend to have politician in his blood. He knows everybody and has an uncanny ability to talk to anyone. I expected this years ago, but now is the time I suppose.


Running for office, divorce and mortgages: yes, this is middle age. Well, a little past the middle. As my friend Charlie's son said, "Middle age? Well, dad, you're being optimistic." Looking around at my fellow Charleston High grads last night, I wondered a few things.


What the hell has happened?


Former football stars now bald, gray, out of shape. Goddess cheerleaders now looking thin, but old, old, old.

Old fights, old wounds-all forgotten. "Old men forget yet all shall be forgot," saith the Bard. Damn if he wasn't right about everything.

So...go forth Andrew and win this upcoming battle. You have my support.

The "God" Rock

My friend Dave shot this magnificent scene at Kanawha State Forest. He calls it the God rock. You'll have to ask him why, but perhaps the answer is obvious.

Musician Stuff (kinda sorta), Pt. 8

What tender days, we had no secrets hid away
Well, it seemed about a hundred years ago


Picture this: Sicily, 1957.

Just joking. Picture a guy with a dream of going to college to study music. It's an economic dumbass move to be sure, but as Keith Richards said, "What the hell else am I going to do?"

My stepdad had this liberals arts college that was down south. Even though we went there, shook hands with many people, my grades were not good enough for me to get in. He ranted and raved, but in the end, West Virginia Wesleyan was my start. All my friends went to WVU or elsewhere, but a large university probably would have made me feel even more lost.

It was there that I first learned how little I actually knew about music. There was a course called Introduction to Musicianship. I remember sitting in this auditorium while Professor Schaffer played melodies on the piano and we were supposed to be writing them down.

What?

Why don't transcribe from Greek to Hebrew while we're at it. Shit. I had no fucking idea what and how to do this. It seemed like magic. Needless to say, I barely passed that class.

My student tutor was a dick who played tuba. He was a sweaty, fat, high strung individual.
His contempt for my questions were obvious, but people underestimate my stubbornness and determination. I hated how little he made me feel sometimes, but that didn't stop me from asking away. I would knock away on the practice room door just to mess with him. He would usually yell something, trying to let me know that you don't interrupt practice, but I didn't care. I was not going to fail. Or at least try the fuck not to.

Overall, I think I was playing catch-up to the other students who seemed to already know music theory and could take music dictation. I was a twelve-string slinging folkie with a flannel shirt and blue jeans who wasn't likely to succeed. I bet my profs thought I wouldn't make it through the first year. Odds are, I would have probably bet against myself.

We all want to be the best. There were and always will be average strummers (We all feel like this sometimes.) who are found trying to be the center of attention at a gathering. For me, I entertained friends, usually with my beloved Aria twelve-string (sadly now broken), playing originals.

One of the few "public" performances I was involved in was at the student hall or whatever they called it. Someone yelled, "Face the audience!" because I had turned towards the other musicians. Fair enough, but I wasn't ready for prime time yet.

One night I jammed with a drummer. He was an older, more experienced player than me. Afterwards, he told me that I played some nice chords, but I needed to clean up - meaning articulate notes with greater accuracy. That was more than fair advice. I had a helluva lot to learn, but I had no one to show me a clear path to achieving these goals. Besides, I was kinda crappy as a music student.

* * *

Mrs. Dees taught Humanities. She was a voice teacher I believe. A very high strung person as well. Are we sensing a theme here? I can't really recall what we learned in there, except I think her main purpose was to throw out an idea and listen to us debate it. I could see the glee in her eyes when students began to bare their teeth at one another over some silly thought or another.

I did recognize in her a sense of fellowship. Most of the class were not music majors. There was a kinship, let us say.

One thing I have never had in common with music professors is their snobbery. One kid had loaned her Queen's A Night at the Opera. She returned it to him, adding "That's not opera!!" No shit, lady. The little brown nose also tried to impress with Emerson, Lake and Palmer. Another no go. She made a deprecating remark about Keith Emerson's playing and how many classical players could play rings around him. Again, missed the fucking point. How many precious classical pianists write and perform their own music to millions of adoring fans? It's a wonderful art to interpret and perform timeless music that's already been written for you-quite another to write your own and go through the rock-n-roll machinery.

Dr. Loftis taught piano. I was in the basic piano class with two other students. We all probably gave the man fits because we were so awful and slow. One day though, I had a moment. There was a piece that allowed for some improvisation. The two students before me each took their turn. I was really excited because I knew that all my fooling around at home on the piano was finally going to amount to something. When my turn came, I went wild. I did anything and everything my plumber's fingers could play. When it was over, the kid next to me said one word: "Wow." He had that look on his face that I knew so well. Dr. Loftis smiled. I had had a good day. Maybe music was my thing after all. Didn't know for sure.

Dr. Shaffer was a poncy old fruit who taught theory and the dreaded Ear Training. He talked in a snappy, nasal voice like Paul Lynde. He gave no quarter. You got the grade based on results. One friend of mine wrote a funny song around the Shaffer beer theme substituting Dr. Shaffer's name. We ended up playing it for him. He was not amused. Perhaps the line, "when you wish you had a gun" was the kicker. Go figure.

I had no "applied instrument" as guitar was not taught there. So, for one year, I learned what I could about the mysteries of music using the guitar to play with other students, teach a few lessons and learn about other things - like keggars.

* * *
The local frat boys invited everyone over to their Bacchanalian Beer-a-thons. There I saw a crowd of college kids all join in singing "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down." Hey, are we in the south? I thought this was Buckhannon, not Savannah. Or watch bands where the bassist had only three strings playing covers of Aerosmith's Sweet Emotions. Audience participation included a rendering of some '70s funk tune whose chorus was, "Shit. Goddam. Get off your ass and jam." Ah college...the last burning embers of childhood.

There were lots of girls. Such pretty girls. Not that I had any skills. Oh no.

Let's say there were a couple of dry runs. Some ending comically. Some in just friends. One that ended in bliss.

How about we leave it there until next time?